


sings in my blind heart still (or, Attention to Detail)

by Arwyn



Category: due South
Genre: (not dief), Angst, Cooking, Dief ex machina, Eventual Happy Ending, Hand porn, M/M, Panic Attacks, Unresolved Sexual Tension, brief mention of canon-level violence against animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwyn/pseuds/Arwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To make gravy at home, simply melt fat in a pan, add flour and spices and cook until browned, then, stirring constantly, gradually pour in broth or stock. A hearty gravy -- thick, warm, rich, comforting -- is easy to produce with time and attention.</p><p>Or, in which Fraser fails to make 1) gravy, and 2) sense.</p><p>But then there is Ray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inedible toppings and inadequate excuses

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Al Purdy's The Dead Poet. I almost titled it Attention to Detail. But I never can resist the Purdy.
> 
> Beta by and thanks to HereEatThisKitten.

It didn’t happen often. Certainly not enough to adversely affect their working relationship -- which was rather most of the point, Fraser reminded himself.

Nor enough to justify the illicit imaginings his mind indulged in in those twilight moments between awake (when his thoughts were more frequently and firmly under his conscious control) and asleep (when he could choose to dismiss his dreams as the meaningless processing and sorting of the day’s mental debris, which, given how full his days were of Ray, of course would feature his partner heavily), and yet, there they were anyway, glimpses and fantasies of touch, lips, heat, sweat, his mental theater so active while his arms remained folded over his abdomen, and his better mind scolded him for each weak thought. Those happened far more often than the incidents themselves.

But though infrequently, the moments (almost-but-not, possibility without actuality) happened -- and they both knew they did, and they each also knew that the other knew as well -- and that was enough. Enough to provide a certain piquancy to their everyday interactions. Enough to make their arguments a little more severe. Enough to make the fear of each other’s loss that much more intense.

Enough that, when their duties to justice and their respective workplaces were discharged, he found himself, on occasion, seeking out circumstances in which such moments were more likely to take place.

Such as now.

It hadn’t, perhaps, been necessary to offer to cook dinner at Ray’s apartment that evening, but then again, it wasn’t necessary not to, and Ray had agreed readily enough. (“Yeah, sure. 'M all out of moss, though. Tons of dust, just gotta harvest it off the lamps.” “Mmm, an inspired idea. I do prefer my toppings fresh.” And Ray had laughed, and thumped the roof of the car, and they’d gotten in and driven across town, and arrived here.) Their day, while fulfilling enough, had been neither physically strenuous (“It’s been, what, couple of weeks since you jumped off or into anything you shouldn’t’ve?” “We concluded the Ackerman case last Thursday.” “Oh right, the swimming pool.”) nor excessively long (“That’s what I love about you, Fraser: always around to help a guy in need.” “It’s only paperwork, Ray.”). So there was time, and energy, for a home-cooked meal to be a reasonable enough suggestion -- Dief’s commentary on his motivations notwithstanding.

“Ray, could you get the pepper? It’s in the cabinet… I’m afraid the sauce...”

Ray took a swig of his beer and shoved off from the counter he’d been leaning on. He stepped sideways behind Fraser -- all the narrow kitchen would allow -- and reached up with the hand not holding the beer for the requested spice. Fraser could feel the heat of him all along his side, smell him -- Old Spice and fresh sweat and the leather of his holster, the pheromonal mix that said simply Ray underneath it all, the headiest aphrodisiac Fraser had ever encountered -- and he let that awareness wash over him, while his hands went through the automatic motions of stirring the roux.

“Here.” Fraser wouldn’t let himself imagine he could feel Ray’s breath -- there was still a respectable several centimeters between them -- but the sound of his voice, so close behind Fraser’s ear, sent a shiver along his neck he ruthlessly suppressed.

“Ah. Thank you. If you could, just… into the pan…” And perhaps the roux didn’t need quite such vigilance, but surely, if this were all he could have, he would not be blamed for taking what was available?

Ray quirked his brow -- he wasn’t fooled, and Fraser should feel a fool, he should, but Ray was so close, and he soldiered on -- and dashed the pepper in. “Good?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Ray _hmm_ ’d acknowledgement -- of the thanks? of Fraser’s transparent excuse for proximity? (Fraser wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to examine it too closely, not when Ray hadn’t moved away yet, not when Fraser knew he would soon. He always did.) -- and put the pepper back in the cabinet. Fraser brought the spoon to his face, and sniffed deeply, trying to ignore the browned butter and fried flour and focus on _Ray, Ray, Ray_ while he still could. Ray drained the bottle, his long neck exposed and working, up-down, up-down as the bitter liquid flowed down his throat, and Fraser licked his lip and stirred and added broth to the pan with a hiss of steam. He expected Ray to step away -- he did not step ever so slightly away from the stove in anticipation of Ray needing to pass him again, he simply was shifting for a more optimal whisking position -- and was surprised when Ray instead put his bottle down on the counter, and leaned in, exhaling malt and hops close, so close to Fraser’s face.

“Fraser.”

Fraser added another ladle of broth and kept stirring.

“Fraser. Why’re you doing this?”

“A homemade gravy, while labor intensive, is --”

“Fraser.” Ray shifted, just a rebalancing of weight from one foot to another, and brushed the front of his hip against the back of his own. Fraser was whisking in much smaller motions now, lest he elbow Ray, just below the ribs, where Ray’s body was soft and vulnerable. “Ben. Why are you doing this?”

Fraser’s right hand paused -- broth, it was time for another addition of broth, and he’d move his left hand to get it, any moment -- and Ray’s finger extended, and… brushed. Just barely. Just brushed the side of his hand, and Fraser had to close his eyes, he had to, the sight of that long finger reaching for him, stroking his skin -- no. Better not to see.

Better not to feel, but how could he not? He could hardly now feel anything else, the diffuse awareness of Ray along his side concentrated to this one, feather-light spot, slowly moving along his hand.

“I…” Fraser swallowed, and smoothed his brow with his left hand, right clutching the wooden spoon, suspended between the heat of the pan and the greater heat of Ray’s caress. “It’s… I suppose, because it’s what I can have.”

“Fraser…” That was… that was Ray’s mouth, not kissing, just… there. Against his shoulder. Lips, so light. Breath penetrating the flannel, damp and hot, so hot, and the gravy was burning and his shoulder was burning and he was going to get burned from this but he couldn’t pull away. “You could have more. We could…”

He didn’t lean closer, he just rested his hand on the counter next to Ray’s, and his weight shifted to that side. He cleared his throat, but somehow his voice still came out less than clear. “You know, you know why we can’t.”

Ray’s fingers were tangling with his, and Fraser felt his head drop forward as Ray’s other hand lit upon his waist, hooking into his belt loop. He rubbed his mouth against Fraser’s shoulder as he spoke. “No, I. Nope. I don’t know. Can’t think of a single good reason right at this, uh, at this juncture.”

“Ray,” he began. He realized was clenching his fist, pulling Ray’s hand tight around the back of his own, fingers interwoven, spoon abandoned. He flicked the stove off. Gravy perhaps wasn’t worth it after all. He stared at the congealing, half-burned mess, too much fat and flour, not enough attention and broth.

He felt Ray drop his forehead where his lips had been. “Fraser.” The slight sing-song intonation hinted at mockery, perhaps, or maybe just mimicry, an attempt to remind him to continue. He cleared his throat, again, and started, again.

“Ray Vecchio’s and my friendship --”

“ _Bzzt!_ Judges say nah, try again.”

Ray could be so very, very trying. (He was trying, trying to explain, while his traitorous fingers were trying to fuse with Ray’s, possessive to Ray’s playful, demanding to Ray’s gentle, and Americans these days didn’t understand ‘old fashioned’ strictures against simple familiarities such as hand-holding, but oh, he did, he understood, never had he understood better.)

“Be that as it may, it’s true that you, as the current and temporary Ray Vecchio, ought to follow the original Ray Vecchio’s preferences and outward behaviors.”

“I dunno if you noticed, but I am not Vecchio. Not inside these walls, and only kinda outside them. I don’t dress like him, don’t act like him, I mean yeah, I don’t kiss his sister and I got all the badges and ID and stuff, but you think I’m gonna cause him to have some kinda crisis of, uh, identity, he comes back and finds out someone who is very much not him was acting not exactly like him?”

Ray’s words were belligerent, and Fraser could feel the tension -- a different tension, sharper, harder, so much less enticing if no less mesmerizing -- building in him. And yet, his hand, that long-fingered, wide-knuckled hand, kept caressing his, gentle, slow. Exploring him, exciting him. Distracting him.

“There’s also… the, ah. Matter of our employers. Neither of which are known for their, uh. Understanding natures. I am, after all, posted here due to their compassion and progressivism.”

“Fuck ‘em.”

“That’s hardly--”

“Nah, just fuck ‘em. Forget them. I don’t care, and I know you don’t either, since you are, in fact, here in Chicago. Next.”

Ray’s hand at his hip -- the hand at the end of the arm wrapping around him, a bright line of heat crossing his back, so like-unlike the familiar leather of his uniform -- clenched into a fist, pulling Fraser’s pants tight around him, pulling him off balance. Ray’s body was readying for a fight, and, at the same time, bringing Fraser closer to him. Ray shifted, settled into this new, closer configuration, turning his head so they were both staring down at what was going to have been dinner -- or perhaps Ray was watching their hands, still rolling, squeezing, brushing together. Fraser wasn’t. He couldn’t.

“You may dismiss these reasons,” and he realized he was whispering, why was he whispering? He’d spoken up and spoken on topics in the direst and most dangerous of situations, clear and strong as his grandmother had taught him. Where had this voice come from, low and uncertain, throat squeezing shut, the words slipping past only when broken, made small and weak. “But they are, nevertheless, the reasons why… why we can’t…”

“You know, I bought that line a year ago. I did. Figured, sure, you knew Vecchio, you knew the job, you knew the people, you musta known what’s best. I’d never had a partner who was Canadian before, and I didn’t do so well last time I tried to make it with my best friend. So I followed your lead, been letting us live on scraps of shared breath, keeping our hands to ourselves. Keep my hands to myself pretty much every night. But I gotta say, it’s sounding a lot more like bullshit these days. Like you just don’t wanna. Like you like the torture, which okay, but there are funner ways to make that happen. Or maybe you, uh. You just don’t want more. Maybe this is enough for you. Maybe this is all it’s ever gonna be for you. In which case, you gotta tell me, ‘cause I’m tapping out. This is it. Done and dunner. See, I can survive a broken heart -- did it once already -- but I can’t survive if I let myself get used and left again. Won’t be nothing left, and I’m… I’m not doing that, Fraser. So, uh. You let me know.”

Ray untangled their hands, and unwrapped himself from Fraser, and walked away.


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things dissonant are brought into resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words fail at offering thanks once again to HereEatThisKitten. Much gratitude also to Wagnetic and JaneDuJour for offering encouragement and motivation to finish this.
> 
> First two quotations from Seneca, third from Wordsworth.

Ray didn’t walk far, though. Fraser could hear him, settling -- or what passed for settling in a man who could never stay still -- on the couch, ruffling Dief’s fur vigorously, right behind his ears, judging by the lupine growls of pleasure that echoed into the kitchen.

He felt bereft. Buffeted. Bereaved, for surely he had lost something just now, had lost everything, both the little he’d allowed himself, and any possibility of more. Possibly the friendship -- his only current Chicago friendship -- altogether. He wouldn’t impugn Ray’s professionalism and commitment to the work by allowing himself to doubt their official liaison partnership, but, although valuable, that was the least of what Ray had come to be for him.

He would not shiver, because it wasn’t cold.

He picked up the pot, and didn’t throw it across the kitchen. He placed it under the hot water in the sink -- the water felt scalding on his hand, and he let it run -- and washed the never-quite-gravy down the drain.

He must have missed Ray dialing, but a shouted question penetrated past the hiss of the water (the buzzing in his ears, the sound of his heart boiling away -- _melodrama_ , his grandmother’s voice dismissed), and he turned it off.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Tony’s got something against fruits of the tropical variety again; Chinese good?”

“Oh -- uh, yes, that’s fine.”

It was fine. Everything was apparently fine. Everything was going to be fine -- there would be work, and dinner, and hockey, and friends, and Fraser would be fine, as always. As fine as he'd been before there was ever any not-quite-more; he couldn't be otherwise. He dried the pot, and rubbed the towel over his hands.

“Game’s on,” Ray called from the couch.

“I can hear. Your neighbors on the other side of the building can probably hear.”

If Fraser had expected Ray to respond to this goading -- not that Fraser was picking a fight, he was simply pointing out the excessive volume of the television -- he was mistaken. He heard the slide of denim against the worn velour of the couch; likely Ray turning around to give him some sort of look.

Fraser couldn’t look to see.

He slapped the towel down against his thigh, straightening up. ‘ _A wise man is content with his lot, whatever it may be, without wishing for what he has not._ ’ His attempts at… this, this sort of thing, had always been brief, ended before properly begun. Ended before begun at all, this time. He was simply getting more efficient at it, he supposed.

It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it would have to do.

The broth was still out on the stove; it had cooled enough by now to be handled, there were numerous plastic take out soup containers in a lower cabinet, he could --

He startled, as the towel was pulled out of his grasp. “Dief!”

That ungrateful, mannerless… _dog!_

“Dief, get back -- give me that -- Diefenbaker!”

“Yelling at the deaf wolf again? Isn’t that, like, some kind of bigotry or something?”

He looked up from trying to get to Dief -- who of course had run with his prize under the coffee table, where Fraser would have to resort to violence, or furniture rearrangement, to get at him -- and realized he was kneeling in front of the couch, in arm’s-reach of Ray -- Ray -- who was watching him, lips quirked, eyes sad.

“I… he grabbed the towel, he’ll chew it to shreds --”

“I don’t care about the towel, Fraser. He’s just bummed he missed out on the gravy. Probably smelled some drips on it. Let him have it.”

“Ah…” Fraser realized his mouth was still open, snapped it shut, swallowed. “Well. I’ll just…”

They were the noises of movement, but he wasn’t moving. Ray was moving -- a twitch, a head cock, the tap of a finger -- and Fraser was not. Excess and absence. Sun and stone.

The knock startled him, and he jerked his hand away from the couch, jumped himself upright. “I’ll get the door.”

Ray’s eyes followed his face. He turned away.

“It’s Chang,” Ray’s voice followed him. “Wallet’s in my jacket.”

“Oh. Yes. Uh.” His own money was in his Stetson -- hooked on the handles of Ray’s bike on the wall (“See? I got a hat hook.”), where Ray always put it. He’d have to go back -- but he was by the door. But he couldn’t let Ray --

A second knock.

“Uh, making the delivery guy wait isn’t that polite, buddy.”

Fraser blinked. Quite. He opened the door.

“...uh, that’ll be fifteen-seventyfive? ...Mr Mountie?”

Fraser realized he was staring without seeing, and willed himself to focus on Mr Zheng’s concerned face. His lips curved up; he hoped it was a smile.

“Yes. Of course. One moment.”

Ray’s jacket was closer, and although propriety dictated he not allow Ray to purchase a replacement for what was, in essence, his failure, it was only the more pressing need to offer payment that kept him in the entryway, that was all. He would pay Ray back, of course.

It was the work of a moment, and he found himself twenty dollars in debt and holding a bag of MSG-laden food that, he was sure, must have smelled wonderful.

Oh.

Ray had ordered egg foo yung. With -- he looked in the bag -- extra gravy.

He stared at the two small containers, one stacked on top of the other.

“Fraser?”

Ray was standing, halfway to the door from the couch. Fraser jerked the bag closed. Ray’s hand rose, then he tucked it in his back pocket.

“Bring the food?” A full body gesture toward the couch, a step backward, still watching Fraser watch him, before Ray broke eye contact, turned, folded himself down.

He’d turned the volume down earlier, and now sat, turning the remote end over end against his knee, blond head bowed, but bent, ever so slightly, with his ear toward the door.

Toward Fraser.

The invitation was obvious, and Fraser was too polite to not accept. He detoured to the kitchen for a fork for Ray (“It’s not that I can’t do chopsticks, I _can_ , of course I _can_. I just, uh, like not having as much sauce on my shirts, y’know?’), and sat on the couch, against the unused arm. There was a full cushion between them; plenty of room for the extra cartons, napkins, and so on. He started unpacking the bag, Ray watching him through the sides of his lashes.

“That how it’s gonna be?” The words were a question, almost aggressive, but Ray’s voice -- soft, sad, more statement than query -- sliced him through smoothly, like a well-treated knife through a rabbit’s underbelly. He stopped, second gravy warm and heavy in his hand.

The urge to dissemble, to feign oblivious, rose up as it always did, but he found he could not muster the energy even for that. He placed the container down before his grip crushed it.

“How else could it be?”

“‘ _How else_ ’? Fucking Christ!” The cartons wobbled on their uncertain perch as Ray flung himself up, motion exploding outward as Fraser’s could not. “How else, huh? How about we skip the bullshit? How about you stop being the goddamn do-right Mountie for once? How’s about it just be you and me here, and forget the fucking world and do what we want for once? Except I don’t even know what you want, ‘cause you? You don’t say anything. Never stop talking, but don’t say anything about this, not in any language I know. So what do you want, Fraser? Huh? What do you want? ‘Cause that’s what it could be.”

Ray came to a stop, body facing him, head turned away. He… glistened, face flushed, the long muscle in his neck standing to attention, and Fraser wanted.

“I… find that very little of what I want intersects with what is possible.”

Ray turned toward him. “What if it was, huh? What would you do, right here, right now? One last chance. You want it, it’s possible.” A stamp in place, flinging his arms out, chest high -- a move Fraser recognized from so many interrogations, indisputable sign of Ray picking a fight (“Starting shit, Fraser.” “Strategically posturing aggression.” “You want a go??” “Ah. Indeed. Starting shit it is.” “Thank you kindly.”). “Here I am.”

There he was. Ray -- fierce and angry, wielding his vulnerability like a weapon -- offering himself, his anger, his passion, his body, for… whatever Fraser wanted.

“I want… I’m hungry, Ray.”

A beat, and then Ray sagged, whatever current keeping him upright abruptly cut. “Right. Right. Okay, sure, we can, uh --”

“I’m starving.” He interrupted -- hardly polite, but he could hardly stop himself, needed to stop Ray, needed that electrical spark back. Needed _Ray_. He slid to the floor, kneed himself across the rug, barely aware of the coffee table, the ache in his knees, Diefenbaker’s scrabbling out the open window, focused only on Ray. “And I don’t… I don’t know how…”

He was too close to look up now, to close to keep his eyes open, to let himself see. The slouch of Ray’s pants bounced his own breath back to him. The slightest lean and he could -- but he couldn’t. He knew almost-but-not. He knew the pain that came after doing. But to cross that line, with Ray, to lose everything, to lose himself…

In the end, it wasn’t him. He heard Ray exhale, and felt that warmth come closer so slightly, and then --

Contact.

His face against Ray’s pelvis, against _Ray_ , and now he was the one breathing into fabric, he was the one rubbing his face, mouthing against cotton, and his hands rose up and clenched Ray’s legs and gripped tight -- _mine, yes, don’t leave, stay, mine_ \-- as he covered his face with Ray, caressed Ray with all he had, lips and nose and cheek and the dart of his tongue (cotton, dye, sweat, _Ray_ ). He was rewarded with Ray’s breath quickening, raspy and open mouthed, and the swell of Ray, thickening and lengthening under the fabric.

Ray’s hands gentled over his hair, and he moaned.

It wasn’t enough (it would never be enough), and he scrambled for the button, the zipper, and Ray helped him yank the pants and underwear down his legs and there, yes, there, Ray was inside him and he could taste him, feel him, smooth and soft and hard and textured all at once, and it was good, it was _so fucking good_ , and when Ray’s hands clenched tight it was _better_ \--

and then loss as Ray pulled away, of course loss, that was what came next, loss, and pain, and loneliness, empty --

A firm yank on his hair pulled his head backward and his eyes open. Ray’s face, lined and sweating and sex-blown and so very dear, looked down at him. “Nuh uh. No freaking out. Only one of us gets to freak out, and in this partnership that’s me, ask anybody. ‘Cause this is good, this is real good, Fraser, wanted this for so long, but I gotta know, I gotta, it’s, this isn’t just for now, this can’t be just for now. Uh. Right?”

His mouth was covered in sweat and saliva and Ray’s own pre-ejaculate -- he could feel it all, messy and cooling his chin, cheeks, lips -- and he swallowed, licked again (searching out that slick-musk taste-feel of Ray’s arousal, reveling in it), and said (voice certain; he was as certain in his desire as he was certain in its futility, and this was certainly a bad idea, and yet), “Yes, Ray.”

“Yeah?” The hands in his hair loosened, and he chased after them, rubbing hard, slow, the scritchy sound of hair-on-hair filling the room.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not gonna, y’know, forget all this tomorrow?”

“I couldn’t if I tried.” The knuckle of Ray’s thumb felt different than the swell of palm below it, but, ah!, tasted the same. “And I won’t.”

“ _Unh!_ So, so what gives? Or, uh, what gave?”

“Ray-- I--”

Ray gave, Ray had given him so much, and he was giving up, giving in, and it was going to ruin him, but he would have this first, he would, and he pulled and leaned and slipped back over Ray’s erection, tongue stroking, willing Ray to understand, to give him just a little bit more, to give him _this_.

“Fuck! All right. All right. It’s alright, Fraser, fuck, yeah…” Ray’s murmurs washed over him and Ray’s hands brushed over him, and Ray’s taste slid into him, and he was the silk slide of skin, the moans and gasps and air pulled fast above a so-full mouth, he was rough damp hair over muscled leg under his hands, he was salt and bitter and sweet, umami, musk, he was lost, he was alive, he was --

“God, fuck, I’m gonna, fuck, Fraser, _unnnnnh!_ ”

\-- flooded, again, more, and it was glorious, and spilled out, and he tried to swallow and taste all at once, coughed, licked and tasted more, and would have stayed there, would have stayed there, buried in Ray, surrounded by Ray, except --

“Shit, oh God, I can’t.”

And he was helping Ray down as his legs gave out, helped him sit on the floor (they’d have to mop, later), and Ray flopped backward, one arm flinging out, the other releasing his head (just a hair too late, just perfect, a last wonderful pull), the hand sliding down, landing finally on his forearm, spasming into a grip and relaxing, spasm-relax, as the hormonal flood and orgasmic aftershocks surged through him.

“That was, uh. That. C’mere. Come here, come, I haven’t, I wanna kiss you, dammit, get up here.”

He found himself folding over Ray’s legs, face trying to find the warmth and damp again. He was cold, he was so cold…

“Fraser? Fraser, fuck, you’re shivering, you’re -- shit! Shit, dammit, I knew it, shoulda gotten you in bed -- shoulda gotten you in bed months ago -- dammit, Fraser, here, come here.”

Warmth removed, as Ray scooted out from under him, sat up, folding away  -- no! -- but then there were hands around him, pushing him, moving him, grabbing -- a blanket? off the sofa, it was ridiculous, it wasn’t cold, why was he so cold.

“Come on, let me -- here.” Ray’s arms around him, pulling him back, his back against Ray’s chest. Oh -- Ray’d pulled up his pants at some point, still open, the sharp edge of the zipper pull poking awkwardly against his hip.

“Okay, we’re doing this, we are doing this, you said, and you never lie, right? Except for how you lie all the time, but that don’t matter, not right now, ‘cause I’m not gonna let you, not on this, nuh uh. So you’re gonna stay there, feel me, see, no more space, no more of that not-touching. Oh yeah, you’re well and truly touched now, buddy. Yeah? You like that? You here with me? That’s cool, that’s… that’s good, I like that. Like you. Yeah, you, Fraser. Ben. Benton? Still probably gonna call you Fraser most of the time, huh? I mean, can’t really shout ‘Benton’ in the bullpen -- not that that’s ever stopped Frannie. But she’s not here, yeah? Just you and me. You and me and whatever’s going on in that crazy head of yours. Hey, hey, breathe. Come on, buddy, feel me, yeah? Breathe with me. There, yeah, that’s better. Greatness.”

Heartbeat against his ear. Rumble of a voice, resonant through ribs and muscle. Arms around him, rubbing his arm, his chest, carding through his hair. He heard the words, saw them as in a tableau. Meaning was as irrelevant as the meaning of an arctic flower; it simply was, as was he.

His own heart slowed, as though seeking to match rhythm with its partner, even here.

“Hey, you hungry?”

He was shifted about as Ray twisted around, one arm disappearing before coming back, and again, the smell of egg, grease, spice far closer now

Ray’s hand was in front of him, and he watched a line of thick gravy run off the piece of patty Ray’d ripped off, run down onto Ray’s fingers. Ray brought it closer, until he could feel the warmth against his mouth, savory and thick. “You want some?”

And he did, and he opened, took it inside him (inside him, where Ray had been, where Ray was again, long fingers brushing against his lips, and he closed around them, licking as they pulled out). Chewed, swallowed.

“Yeah? Okay, cool. Here.”

Another bite, another chance to take Ray inside, experience the loss of his pulling away -- but not left empty. Nourished.

He ate, as Ray took a bite for himself.

“Probably can’t manage the noodles this way, but hey, fried egg thing, fingers, I’m all over that, see?”

He breathed, and let himself be fed, as Ray prattled on, alternating bites for each of them. He started to realize how ridiculous it was -- surely his father would ridicule, were he here -- around when Ray scraped the last of the gravy out with his finger, and offered it to him. “S’the last of it. You want?”

And he did -- freeing his own hand, finally, from the blanket, he reached out for Ray’s wrist, brought the grease-streaked hand closer, licked, licked, and took the whole rich warm digit inside himself one last time, tongue curling and pulling, rubbing, caressing.

“Uh, wow, okay. Yeah. You, uh. You want. Hey, you back? You here with me, Fraser?”

He loosened his grip, and brought both their hands to rest in his lap. “I… believe so, yes.”

“Yeah?” Ray squeezed him, relaxed. “That’s good. That’s real good. So, uh. Where’d you go? ‘Cause that was some thing there.”

“...I don’t... know. I’ve never…”

“Yeah, I get that. You don’t freak out often. Me, I’m an old hand at it, y’know? Pathetic practice makes poor performance or, uh, something.”

He picked up Ray’s hand (not old at all; well-used, maybe) in both of his, studying it, lines and whorls, the same as everyone had, and yet unique, unlike all others. The only hand he desired to study this way, to taste, to touch, to be touched by.

“I think, in this case, a more appropriate quotation might be: ‘Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.’”

“Luck, huh? This, uh. This feels lucky, Ben. I mean. I feel lucky, being, uh… hah. Being here. With you.”

Ray’s hand twitched under his -- not pulling away, merely folding in on itself, before opening to his exploration once again.

He murmured: “‘ _There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart._ ’”

“Fraser?”

“No, Wordsworth.”

“Hardee ha ha.”

Fraser felt his eyes crinkle, his cheeks lift. “Thank you kindly.”

“Freak.” The familiar epithet was muffled by Ray pressing his face behind Ben’s ear. “I do, though. I mean. Uh. Don’t lose it again, okay? I’m all out of finger foods.”

Fraser brought the waggled fingers to his mouth, bit down, smiled at the expected "Hey!" of not-exactly-protest. Kissed it in not-exactly apology, rubbed his thumb over the bite.

"God, your mouth. It's been -- fuck, Ben, you keep -- and I haven't even --" Ray cut himself off, burying his face in Fraser's shoulder. He could feel Ray's jittery control, his restraint, holding himself back, trying so hard to avoid pushing.

Fraser examined Ray's familiar hand and hitherto unknown palm. Haven't what? What hasn't Ray done for him? There's nothing -- oh. He stilled.

"Sorry, don't shut down, you don't have to, there's nothing -- I always push too much, and you don't -- I'll be here, it doesn't matter, I can wait, shit, I'm sorry..."

Ray's soft apologies spurred Fraser to movement. He released Ray's hand, turned, kneeled between Ray's legs. Ray looked startled, tried to pull himself out of Fraser's way, and Fraser gentled him with a hand to his shoulder, smoothed up to now-chilled neck. Another to the side of his head, ruffled the gel-crisped hairs there. Ray's eyes, wide and fixed on his, upward-turned face shifting from concern to confusion. "Ben, you don't have to -- I'm not going anywhere, Fraser, you don't gotta -- uh..."

Ray's mouth hung just open, warm, shallow, rapid puffs of exhale barely brushing Fraser's face. How could Fraser ever decline such a long-desired invitation? He could ruin dinner with this man and be still fed; push him away and be brought back; shut down and be held close through it all. He could take Ray into his mouth, and still Ray would wait, would ask but not demand, and how could he ever think he could end up alone, with Ray as his partner?

The lines around Ray's mouth deepened, as he reflected Fraser's smile, even as the lines between his brows deepened in question, and Fraser had a flash of what he would look like in ten years, twenty, more, and his own smile grew brighter still. "Fraser?"

"I want to, Ray." And Fraser leaned forward, and tasted love.

 


End file.
